Dear Friends, “Those trips are expensive! How can you afford it?” “I’d love to take a mission trip, but I could never come up with that kind of money.” These represent only a few of the questions and comments our family (five now young-adult children plus Dad and Mom) has heard in the more than 50 short-term mission trips we’ve taken through the years. Because of multiple mission trips, we’ve sometimes had to raise more than $10,000 in one season. So how do we do it? How can you? Large and in Charge As you prepare for your mission trip, remember the One who called you to go. God doesn’t order what he can’t pay for. If he’s leading you on a mission trip, you can trust him to guide your fundraising, too. But don’t sit around waiting for pennies from heaven. Instead, ask God for creative ways to add dollars to your mission trip account. Feel free to consider some of the following (all of which our family has used, often more than once). The Write Start This classic mission-trip fundraiser involves writing letters to friends and family explaining your trip and the funds you need. But don’t discount the power of persuasion. A student I know wrote a letter as the first of what she thought would be several fundraisers. Donations poured in, and she ended up with $2802—just two dollars more than the total needed for her trip. The negative side of this approach is that lots of people write fundraiser letters, and yours may get tossed aside. Recently, we’ve ditched the traditional letter in favor of social media posts with a quick link to an online donor campaign. Your sponsoring organization may provide one, or you might consider something like KickStarter or GoFundMe. (Here’s an example: our daughter Melanie’s current fundraiser site.) Sales Pitch What about that junk cluttering up your (or your neighbors’) garages? Offer to haul it off at no charge, then organize and sell it. One church group I know has a huge garage sale each year and shares the profits with anyone taking a mission trip. Advertise the sale via traditional channels (neighborhood social networks, local newspapers, and signs) but make sure to let your visitors know the funds raised go to support a mission trip. During our missions garage sales, we provide posters showing pictures of past trips, country and specific ministry information. We also add a big “donations” jar to our checkout table. Even those avid garage-salers who want to talk you down from a $1 item will often throw a bill into the donations jar! Bake it Off Do you bake mouth-watering muffins or crazy-good cookies?...

My Father, So many times when I post prayers, people comment back: “That means everyone!” or “That applies to all of us.” I know. And so do you. I wish “wounded by words” didn’t apply to so many. I wish these wounds could be fixed with a kiss, a band-aid, or even a good dose of antibiotics or some secure stitches. But no. The wounds caused by words tend to go much deeper, and the resulting infection remains much longer. Sometimes the word-wounds seem small. A tossed-off comment, a quick word of correction, a thoughtless assumption that hints at anger. But, depending on the recipient, a small wound can plunge deep, can open a tender place—perhaps one still healing from a previous injury. And in this way, little barbs become gaping holes and small statements, large lacerations. Words hurt. They hurt especially when they come from those we respect, even love. Those who have, in one way or another, power over our lives. Those we want to please. Those we seek to honor. Those who often pour their words like kerosene over a smoldering fire, sparking it into a flame that destroys as it grows. Lord, in your mercy, will you stop those words from forming? And if they do form, will you send them another way? Put a block between the source and the ears—and especially the tender heart—of the hearer. Cause the pointed arrows to miss their mark. And where those fireballs and arrows have struck, remove the pain. But Father, don’t just remove it. I ask you to replace it with your power to heal, your light to conquer darkness, your truth to overcome the horror of lies, your love to rule and reign in places where hate had dominion. For your grace to abound. Oh God, clean out the depravity surrounding these wounds—no matter how painful that process may be—and pour your cleansing victory through each one. Let no one remain trapped in their hurt. And use these wounded ones as healers for others, God. Let their words become grace seasoned with salt to lift others up in time of need. For their good and your glory, always and ever, AMEN. Dear Friends, If your life has been wounded by words (and yes, that’s most if not all of you), feel free to share a comment or prayer need below or on social media. I’m here to pray. for his glory, Marti...

Dear Friends, 2016 has brought its share of good things: meaningful work, fun surprises, sweet family time. But I have noticed, as my prayer list grows, that this still-new year has brought some big burdens. A husband who has left his wife and children after many years together. A longtime employee laid off during a time of family illness. A broken engagement. A young mom whose biopsy came back as malignant. Four young adults and their mother, all diagnosed with the same potentially deadly cancer gene. A friend in a continuing battle with melanoma. A teacher taking time off from work to have a lumpectomy and subsequent treatment. A friend whose breast cancer has returned in a more menacing way. Another friend in her third horrendous round against ovarian cancer. And still more situations involving cancer, too numerous to list here. You see the pattern. And although I can’t do research, provide treatment, or bring healing, I can pray. When I’ve been in a tough situation, sometimes prayers come slowly—or not at all. So I offer this on behalf of those fighting cancer or who know someone who is. In other words, I’m praying for all of us. I would be honored for you to join your prayers with mine. Father, today I come to you with a heavy heart. I have nothing but hatred for this disease we call cancer. I don’t like the way it steals life, kills health, and destroys relationships. I feel frustrated that finding a cure takes so long. I hate to look at the statistics about cancer recurrence and death. But I also know your name is Healer. I know you care much more than I do. I know you can bring good even from this most evil disease. So even though I don’t like to see my friends hurt, and even though I don’t like the way cancer brings so much suffering along with it, I trust you. I trust you to bring healing. I trust you to surround these pain-ridden ones with your loving presence. I trust you to give them wise counsel and sensitive caregivers. I trust you to give brilliant ideas to researchers along with the funds to make them work. I trust you, God. I trust you when it gets too close. I trust you to help my friend and her husband make hard but necessary decisions about her treatment. I trust you to lift up another friend as she cares for her children after their cancer surgeries. I trust you to sustain this young mother as she tries to maintain some semblance of normal for her family. I trust you to lift up those whose lives have taken a...

Even here in Florida, I’ve come down with a winter cold. So today, I’m delighted to direct you to the Munce “More to Life” blog, where my post about a different kind of New Year’s resolution appears. Enjoy–and let me know your thoughts in the blog comments or on social media....

Dear God, I said lots of goodbyes this past year. And this year has started out much the same. I guess that’s the way it’ll be from now on, won’t it, Lord? Goodbyes with the start of every new college semester and the end of every college break. Goodbyes with summer mission trips, internships, and visits to faraway friends. Goodbyes with new job opportunities. Goodbyes after holiday visits. Goodbyes as more of our family moves out of state. Goodbyes as they start new jobs. Or marriages. Or other adventures yet unknown. When our five were younger, our house overflowed with shouts and giggles and messes and dirty clothes. And those times late in the evening when, for what seemed like the first time all day, no one was moving or crying or needed me to do something RIGHT NOW? I lived for those. And yes, God, I confess that I didn’t always appreciate the constant pressing-in, the rounds of questions, the brother-sister and sister-sister bickering. The coughing, nose-running, feverish-and-miserable trips to the pediatrician. The difficulty of navigating a grocery store with three or more helpers. The effort it took to buckle and unbuckle carseats. The challenge of keeping a newborn and toddler quiet and happy in the library while the older three made their choices. (Yes, for a few years, we brought along a double stroller to fill with children and books). What burdened me then has become cherished memories now. And so in this season, God, as my nest grows more and more empty, will you teach me to cherish the hellos? Because if they didn’t come home, I wouldn’t get to say goodbye. If they hadn’t wanted to see us for Christmas, I might not notice my empty bedrooms today. If they didn’t love our family traditions, I might not have a home to undecorate. If I didn’t love them so much, I wouldn’t miss them the way I do. So in this time and at this moment, Lord, I thank you for the goodbyes as well as the hellos. I thank you for the silence. The peace. The ability to work at my desk uninterrupted. The ease of considering the likes and dislikes of only two people when planning dinner or a trip to the store. And I thank you for the promise of so many more hellos and goodbyes in the days and, as you allow us, years ahead. My focal word for this year is...

Dear Grandchild-to-be, What can I say? What can I say to you who have endured pain I can’t begin to imagine and lived a life I can’t possibly understand? What do I say to you for whom we wait? I want to hold you close, to call you my very own grandson or granddaughter. You’re the first one (and firsts are always special). I want to see you taken away from wherever it is you need to leave. I want to promise you safety. I want to say you’ll never hurt again. But I can’t do or promise any of those things. I’m a different kind of grandma, and this is our story. Yours and mine. More than 400,000 children throughout the United States wait in foster care, some of them (for all sorts of reasons) ineligible for adoption. Many have suffered abuse. Many have PTSD or other types of emotional trauma because of the life they’ve endured. Sweet grandchild, you know you’re in this group. But you’re so much more. You’re a person. You’re someone with hopes and dreams and needs and desires. You care about the people in your past—even (and maybe especially) the ones who have hurt you. You don’t know what to expect from the future, but you press toward it anyway. You accept help from many who want to give it and some who don’t. You push against rules even when you know they’re right. You don’t always understand what you do or how you feel. And, deep down inside, you wait. You wait for that moment when you know you’re home. You’re right. I’m not your grandma yet, and you may never choose to call me that anyway. But I can tell you this: you are loved. Your almost-parents have endured paperwork and more paperwork and red tape and training and inspections and lectures and self-doubt and more paperwork and more red tape and awkwardness and questions and paperwork and more paperwork and more red tape, all in pursuit of you. I hear the longing in their voices. They can’t wait to bring you home. They know the road ahead will have plenty of bumps, maybe huge potholes or lengthy detours. But they want to travel it with you. For you, they don’t want to be just one more stop, one more waystation. For you, they want to be Mom and Dad—no matter what the legal system calls them. As your almost-mom, my precious daughter, told me, “Even if we can only have this child at home a few years, at least we’ll give them a family to come home to.” That family is ours. And we’re waiting— with so much love,...